"Perhaps it is as well," observed Mrs. Ryder, stiffly. "It is better to know too little on such subjects than too much."
Nevins was writhing in his chair, his mouth half open, when Father Algarcife spoke.
"In this case," he said, and his voice sounded cold and firm, "what is not known seems to be incorrectly surmised. I knew Mrs. Gore—before—before her marriage. She is a Southerner."
Mrs. Ryder looked up.
"Yes?" she interrogated, as he paused.
"And, although I cannot vouch for her discretion, I can for her innate purity of character."
Mrs. Ryder flushed, and spoke with a beautiful contrition in her eyes.
"I was wrong," she said, "to trust rumor. It makes me ashamed of myself—of my lack of generosity."
The curtain rose, and Father Algarcife turned to the stage. But he did not see it. The figures were blurred before his eyes and the glare tortured him. Across the circle of space he knew that Mariana was sitting, her head upraised, her cheek resting upon her hand, her face in the shadow. He could almost see her eyes growing rich and soft like green velvet.
Then, as the voice of the soprano rang out, he started slightly. Beneath the song of love he heard the cry of ambition—a cry that said: